


Unrequited

by kaiz



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-05-26
Updated: 2000-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caspian slays, flirts (!), and broods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unrequited

With his venom  
irresistible  
and bittersweet  


that loosener  
of limbs, Love  


reptile-like  
strikes me down  


\--'With His Venom', Sappho

Windborne grit and ash sting your eyes like the spiteful, fitful, early-autumn snow of your homeland, a thousand days ride and hundreds of years distant. But, in lieu of frigid wind there is the relentless heat and hammer of white-hot mid-morning against scorched desert hardpan; its glare as blinding as sun upon snow. Where before, your every measured inhalation would have brought the sharp scent of pine and clear, cold water, instead you taste the stench of their fear. Of charred wood, blood, sweat, and burning flesh: a fragrance more exquisite than any maiden's solstice garland. And you drink down, savor, and drown in their screams.

A shiver of immortal presence flashes up your spine and he calls down to you from astride his horse. "Excellent work, brother." The wind lashes dark strands of hair across his face, briefly obscuring his beautiful scar.

You grin inwardly (secretively) at the pride and warmth in his cracked, battle-roughened voice, then return to your work. Though the worn, leather whip handle is slick with sweat (and other fluids), your intricate, meditative pattern of lash-upon-lash-upon-bloodied-flesh never falters, despite the bright distraction of his presence (and the sweet ache beneath your ribs that it always engenders). You no longer seek to question the bound body quivering against the post in the village square. Its answers are irrelevant: your brothers and your mercenaries have subdued the village and this beast can offer you little more, except perhaps an empty canvas upon which to exhibit your undeniable artistry.

He dismounts and stands beside you: close enough for you to savor the scent of battle drying upon his skin, yet not disrupt the fluidity of your strokes.

"You have quite the eye for detail, Caspianya."

You pause mid-stroke and meet his eyes at last. The reflection of drying blood and streaks of soot on his armor has transformed their usual icy paleness to smoldering gold. Wordlessly -- almost humbly -- you offer him the whip. You have tasted the cruel, instructive edge of his blade in the past and have writhed beneath the lick of his lash; you believe that his skill exceeds your own.

"Oh no, my friend." He shakes his head. "This is _your_ talent, not mine. I have other sport in mind." His speculative, lustful half-smile inflames you, encourages the reckless and perilous direction of your thoughts. "If I may?"

Startled, you nod. His politeness and respect surprises, then warms you: you have known little of either in your life. The urge to touch him, to lick the lean line of his painted, blood-spattered jaw is nearly overwhelming.

"Cut him loose," he commands, then reaches for the bow strapped across his saddle.

You distract yourself with the task, pausing briefly to admire your work: the narrow, parallel welts; the broader, equi-distant and equi-depth, bloody slashes. Though it has weakened, a flash in the dark, bruised eyes reveals a bit of fight left in this young torn body, and you smile. Your brother will appreciate the chase.

"Run, boy." You counsel falsely, gripping its chin and roughly pulling it upright. "Run, and live."

He finds its obvious struggle with the dilemma -- run and be cut down swiftly, or die slowly and painfully with honor -- greatly amusing; and he laughs, casually nocking an arrow.

"Choose, slave." He invites kindly, his narrowed eyes noting its lean legs and flanks. "You look like a runner. Can you outrun your fate?"

Beneath your hand, it quivers -- wide-eyed, muscles tensing -- then flees with surprising speed. Your brother laughs. "Ah! I love a pragmatist!"

On the broad grasslands far to the south, you have seen the huge cats -- sleek, graceful and breathtakingly swift -- stalk, flush, and slaughter striped antelope and shaggy wildebeest. And now, as you breathlessly pace one step behind him, you surreptitiously (and lasciviously) trace the shape of his battle-honed, gore-slimed limbs with your gaze and are reminded of those light-eyed, golden-furred predators. Of their throaty, satisfied growls and wet, red muzzles that inevitably follow upon the flash of tooth and claw.

Up ahead, it darts to and fro, stumbling over broken crockery and shattered mud brick in the path, rushing past the string of equally (though less messily) broken slaves and villagers -- those unlucky enough to snare Methos' attention. Eyes wild with panic, it circles Silas' pen of seized animals, hurdles the sprawled corpses festering in the sun, then races towards the desert. Rusty red trails drip -- distracting patterns -- down its long, brown legs.

Rather than continue the chase, your brother halts and draws his bow, taking careful aim at the retreating figure: despite the headlong sprint, his hands are steady.

"What do you think?" He asks, one pale eye slitted, sighting along the wooden shaft. "Can I take him from here?"

"Brother." You breathe, almost reverently. "You can do _anything._"

"Such faith!" He laughs wryly, then lets fly. A musical hum and buzz of vibrating bowstring and fletching precedes the flash of sunlight upon bronze, the whistle of flight, the dull thump of impact. And the leggy beast is swept from its feet to lie, weakly struggling, limbs tangled, in the yellow dust.

"And my faith is rewarded," you say gravely, unsurprised.

His eyes glitter and your mouth goes dry when his warm hand cups your nape, a callused thumb tracing through the sweat and dust stippling your skin. "I can always count on you, Caspian," he says softly, and then steps away, knife drawn, towards the gangly carcass still twitching in the road.

Weakly (your bones are water and your skin is tight and hot from his touch), you follow him past the wailing slaves and crouch beside him, next to the shivering body lying prone, transfixed by his arrow. He offers you the knife. "I seem to have missed the heart."

Stunned by his generosity, you grasp his knife then roll the body to its side.

"Please," it whispers, eyes bright with pain and fear. And because your brother wishes it, you oblige with a single thrust. Fascinated, you watch as its eyes glaze then dim, while its sweet heart-blood stains the sand at your knees. These chattel: so easily broken.

After you carefully clean his blade against your leather-clad thigh, you place it upon his outstretched palm. And as his fingers close around the hilt (brushing lightly -- maddeningly -- against yours), his potent scent, the sensuous (and irresistible) warmth of his body, and his enigmatic (welcoming?) smile, tantalize your hungry senses and ignite the unwise passion that lurks, barely constrained, within you. Overcome, you fall into the feast he (unknowingly? cruelly?) offers. Your trembling, traitorous hands brush blood-sticky strands of hair from his face, trace his scar, the curve of his soft, wet lips. And then (insanely!) you lean into his wiry strength, inhaling deeply, sampling the salty-sweet (savory!) ridge of his collarbone, the vulnerable hot, slick skin along his neck, nibbling the bitter, oily arch of his cheekbone and the edge of his jaw, with your greedy teeth and tongue. The rumble beneath your palm, where it rests upon his breastplate, could be either pleasure or laughter. And his right hand tangles in your hair; his eyes are dark and fierce. Thus encouraged, you trace a path towards his smile, pressing a hand between your legs, to ease the ache of your stifled, roused cock.

"Bored, Kronos?" The casual, quiet drawl and accompanying shiver of immortal presence startles you both and he draws away from you, rising to greet Methos. Your lips feel cold, though your scalp tingles (he has not relinquished his grasp), your cheek rests in the hollow of his hip, and you lean against one taut thigh.

"Simply in need of a diversion, Methos." Lust wars with bored indifference in his voice and you rage silently -- a vile, bilious acid that rises from your belly and burns your throat -- as your unspoken, unacknowledged wishes are so casually, cruelly shredded and scattered.

"Is that so?" Methos asks, insincerely. His eyes flicker once over your face then he (arrogantly) dismisses you. And for long minutes, they stare at one another through air grown thick with heat, dust, and a violent, seething energy like a silent quickening. "Now that the village is secure, perhaps I can help."

It is not a request.

"Oh, I'm certain that you can." He says. The shift in power is subtle, but you sense it clearly. And he releases you without hesitation, steps away to follow Methos through the gates of an ornate house, into the courtyard beyond.

And you are bereft, kneeling in the dust beside the cooling corpse. But your body tingles with the memory of his skin, its scents, textures, and tastes. And when you slit open its belly (now somewhat bloated in death) and carve slices from its dark, slippery liver -- while you assuage your hunger for his cock with sweet, slick chunks and bloody juices (that pool deliciously upon your tongue and run down your chin) -- you imagine their pale, sweaty bodies entwined upon silken sheets and you curse the snowy evening that they rode into your camp. The night he sat beside your fire, shared your meat and salt, and painted seductive visions of battle and victory against the bleak northern stars. The very night when the treacherous cold-drake -- which you had thought dormant or dead -- roused in your belly and sank long, venomous fangs into the (once-charred) ruin of your immortal heart.

_Finis._

**Author's Note:**

> Experimental style. Also, Caspian is a cannibalistic serial killer.


End file.
